


The Thought

by YouMadeMeAWholePerson



Category: The X-Files, The X-Files: I Want To Believe (2008)
Genre: Angst, F/M, MSR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouMadeMeAWholePerson/pseuds/YouMadeMeAWholePerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully reflect on their lives: what they are thankful to have, and what they are missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thought

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a way to deal with my many, MANY feelings about William (still not over it, Chris). It's how I realistically picture Mulder and Scully dealing with their feelings about him.

She didn’t have The Thought very often, though when she did, it always made her feel like a traitor.

Whenever it happened, she was quick to reel herself in, to remind herself that she had it good. That she was happy. This wasn’t very hard to do, because it was the truth. She was happy.

Recently, a lot of that happiness had to do with her transition away from pediatrics and into general medicine, a move Mulder had been quietly but persistently encouraging her to make for a while. Every time he would suggest it though, her defenses would go up, and a dismissive remark would bring an end to the conversation. She would immediately feel guilty, a feeling compounded by the fact that he never got angry with her. He’d just nod, kiss her forehead, and promptly change the subject.

It was times like those when she was most grateful for him. Grateful that the patience he lacked for so many things in life he seemed to have in abundance with her. Grateful that he recognized when she was being too ridged, too stressed, too serious, and would try his hardest to help her relax. Grateful that he loved her because she got that way sometimes, and not in spite of it. Grateful that even after all these years, he still wanted to make her happy. And mostly, she was grateful that he was always able to.

Last week after church, she told her mother over breakfast that she had finally become accustom to the predictability of the unpredictability of life with Mulder. Her mother had chuckled, hoping Dana would elaborate. She didn’t, of course, because that wasn’t who she was. But Margaret Scully knew that, and was pleased her daughter had shared at all. Margaret went on to talk about some upcoming event at church, and Scully felt her mind wander. She missed Mulder all of a sudden, which was completely ridiculous, she told her herself. She had seen him two hours ago. But she still missed him, and thought about how was sitting at home, probably still in his pajamas and reading the paper. She imagined how he’d meet her at the door when she came home, and with a lopsided grin tell her about one of the articles he’d read. Then he’d most likely take her outside and show her the progress he’d made on the vegetable garden while she was at the hospital yesterday. A garden she had offhandedly said would be “nice to have someday” about two months ago, and had since become the focus of Mulder’s intense dedication. She supposed she should be frustrated that he spent so much time and effort on a garden while dishes piled up in the sink and the floor remained in desperate need of a sweeping. But then again, this was Mulder: the man who literally went to the ends of the earth to save her but needed constant reminders about her birthday each year. He was indeed predictably unpredictable with everything, it seemed, except his unwavering, all-encompassing love for her. 

If she were perhaps a little braver, Scully would tell her mother about all the times Mulder still surprised her. 

Times when he would wake her up at 1am after she’d worked all day and drag her out of bed to go outside and look at the stars. He’d set up a blanket and bring out mugs of hot chocolate, and with an enthusiasm worthy of a 10 year-old boy on Christmas morning, tell her the history of the constellations, all the while holding her hands gently in his own. 

Times when he would call her into his office and gleefully show her an article about a man in Indiana who claimed he could stop time with a clock he found at a yard sale, and when she was about 30 seconds into an explanation about the improbabilities of time travel, he would laugh and grab her and kiss her and tell her he would never get tired of her trying to prove him wrong. She’d respond that she wasn’t trying to prove him wrong, she was merely trying to scientifically explain why time travel was impossible, and his smile would grow even bigger. He’d cup her face in his hands, thumbs gently stoking her cheeks, and say, “potato, pah-ta-to”. Then he’d kiss her again and again, effectively putting an end to the conversation.

Times when she would wake up early on a Saturday morning to the sounds of him moving around their bedroom, pulling clothing out of drawers and throwing them into a suitcase with a decidedly mischievous look on his face. He’d tell her to get up, to go take a shower and grab some coffee because they were leaving in 20 minutes. She’d smile and ask where they were heading, and his reply would be to grab her around the waist, kiss her passionately, and tell her he’d always keep her guessing. The last time this happened, they’d ended up at a bed and breakfast. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, there were plenty of egg whites and fresh fruit available in the morning, and their room included a secluded patio where they’d spent a lot of time quietly reading. The rest of time, she recalled fondly, they’d spent in that big, comfortable bed. And they hadn’t been so quiet. 

Leaving the restaurant an hour later, Scully kissed her mother goodbye and got in the car, anxious to get home. She was about halfway there when The Thought unexpectedly appeared in her mind. She had to pull over to the side of the road, swiping angrily at tears that traitorously fell down her cheeks.

"I’m happy”, she said aloud, her voice hoarse. And she was. Really and truly. 

"But”, The Thought filled her mind, “You could be happier”. 

******

The first time she had It, she was at a pharmacy. Mulder had asked her to pick up contact lens solution on her way home from the hospital. It was an emergency, he had said in his email. This was still during the days when they lived in West Virginia, when he was confined to the house day in and day out. She knew it frustrated him to no end that he couldn’t just run down to the store and grab the damn bottle himself. So she had been in the store, and after selecting the biggest container of solution she could find, had wandered around the aisles, looking for something she could bring home that would cheer him up. 

She was passing by the greeting cards when she overheard a father and son arguing over what card to get Mom for her birthday. The dad had been insisting on a sentimental card, because “you know your mom likes that stuff”. But the boy, wearing a Garfield t-shit and an old baseball cap, was fixated on a funny card, one of those ones that played music and had a silly message inside.

"This is the one I want, Dad". He said. Dad had steadfastly continued to disagree with the young boy, who Scully figured couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9 years old. 

"Mulder would never do that".

The words appeared suddenly in her mind, and she felt like she had been punched in the stomach.

"Mulder would take William to the store and let him pick out whatever card he wanted. He’d let him get the obnoxiously silly card, because it was the one William loved. And he’d know I’d love it, because Will loved it”. 

She’d hastily dropped the bottle of contact lens solution on a nearby shelf, and without waiting to see if the boy in the Garfield shirt ever got his way, made her way out of the store. 

"Stop it", she told herself. "Stop it". 

But she couldn’t stop. Before she could help it, she was picturing Mulder and William playing basketball in the driveway as she came home from work one day. They would move out of the way to make room for her car, and as soon as she got out they’d be there on either side of her, hugging her and smiling with identical sets of hazel eyes, which would be wide with excitement. 

"Dad said if I made three baskets in a row we could go out for pizza and ice cream", Will would say. 

She’d look at Mulder with a raised eyebrow, and he’d smile sheepishly back at her. 

"And I made FIVE in row, Mom! FIVE!" He’d say, his voice filled with pride. "So… Can we? Please?"

She’d look at Will, and look at Mulder, and after a brief pause inquire about homework. 

"All done, Mom", Will would reply, an all too familiar cockiness in his voice. "Easy as pie." 

So she’d agree to pizza and ice cream, even though it was a Wednesday, because what the hell, Will had made five baskets in a row and his homework was done and she loved when they’d go out for ice cream and Mulder would get an extra big cone, knowing she’d end up stealing some after refusing to get one for herself. He’d kiss her on the cheek every time she went in for a bite, and Will would roll his eyes and say “Get a room”, a phrase he recently picked up at school. Mulder would wink at her when Will’s back was turned, and tell her their son had some excellent ideas. 

When Scully finally came back to her senses, she was sitting in her car in the pharmacy parking lot, her hands white from gripping the wheel too hard and a metallic taste in her mouth from the blood she’d drawn biting the inside of her cheek. 

It was then that she’d first had The Thought, when she first said it aloud. “I could be happier”. 

*********

He didn’t think about his son all the time; not like he used to. He could go days, weeks even, without feeling that old familiar pain. That deep, guttural mixture of regret and longing that twisted his stomach in a knot and filled his heart with an almost unbearable sadness. But inevitably, it would come, and more often than not, it took him by surprise. It was those times, times when the pain crept up and overtook him so completely, that he would treat her badly. He would always feel guilty afterwards, even more so because she rarely sunk to his level, rarely let his moodiness rub off on her. In fact, the opposite seemed to be true

One morning a few weeks ago he woke up and decided he was going to make her breakfast in bed. He quietly crept out of their bedroom and went in to the kitchen, pulling out all the ingredients for pancakes. It was a weekend, so Scully would be a little more relaxed about the rigid diet she insisted on following, the one Mulder though was crazy but had far too much sense (after 2 or 3 or 23 arguments) to say so.

They’d gone to bed rather late last night; a bottle of wine had been consumed during dinner and around 10pm a very tipsy Scully had dragged him into the bedroom. Sleep didn’t come for another hour. Actually, Mulder realized with a smile, more like two hours.

He was stirring pancake batter when it happened; when his mind wandered and all of a sudden it wasn’t just him making these pancakes, it was him and William. They had gotten up early because William wanted to surprise Scully. He insisted on adding M&Ms to the batter, and Mulder gladly agreed, knowing Scully would be so happy that she’d forget to lecture them about healthy food choices. He and William would mix the batter and laugh about how Mom was the “sugar police” and then Mulder would tell Will why the Yankees were going to win the Pennant this year. They’d finish the pancakes and take them to Scully, who would pretend to be asleep when William jumped on the bed and yelled “Surprise! Pancakes in bed!” Then they’d all sit in bed and eat and watch cartoons and play cards and read books until it was far too late to still be in pajamas (Scully’s words), but just the right time to go to the Museum and look at the planets (William’s words). Will would run off to go get ready, and Mulder would share a few choice words of his own about what they were going to do after putting Will to bed that night. Scully would roll her eyes and hit him with her pillow, but the blush creeping up her cheeks as she got up to shower would give her away.

And then suddenly, Mulder was alone again in the kitchen, stirring a bowl of pancake batter he had lost the taste for. He angrily shoved the bowl into the sink, and it shattered, just as Scully emerged from the bedroom.

He had then proceeded to yell at her. Ten hours ago they had been making love, foreheads pressed together as he whispered how much he loved her, how beautiful she was, how perfect she was. And this morning he was yelling at her, telling her the bowl she had picked out was stupid, that she was careless for getting something that could break so easily, that she was smarter than that. He ranted for a good five minutes, then fell silent, feeling like he couldn’t possibly say one more word. He waited for her to react. He figured best case, she’d slap him across the cheek, and worse case, tell him he’d be sleeping on the couch for a week.

But she did neither. Instead, she walked over to him and put her arms around his waist. She pressed her cheek into his chest, and quietly whispered that she was sorry. Sorry she’d chosen that bowl. Sorry it had broken. Sorry the kitchen was a mess. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Then she grabbed his hand and led him over to the couch, and let him lie down with his head in her lap. She ran her hands through his hair and down his cheeks, over and over and over again, and remained silent for however long it took him to regain the ability to speak. 

******

"I love you", he told her one day out of the blue. The words weren’t new to them, though they weren’t said often, and certainly not in public. Old habits die hard, he supposed. They were house hunting in DC, a few weeks after he’d been exonerated by the FBI. She’d been steadily quizzing the realtor about gas tanks and square footage and new windows until the poor woman had finally exclaimed that she needed a quick bathroom break. Scully had called after her that when she was done, she also wanted to talk about the state of the bathtub.

"I love you”, he said, when the flustered woman was out of sight. “I love you because you’re you”. He immediately turned his head and looked away, frustrated that he lacked either the eloquence or the nerve to properly explain himself. Probably both. She put down the folder she’d been holding, and walked over to him. She took his head in her hands, and ran her fingers over his cheeks. “I love you too”, she replied. “I love you because you’re you”.

And then it didn’t matter that his words weren’t spoken eloquently or passionately. They were honest and real and she understood him perfectly. He laughed to himself. Of course she had understood him. She was Scully. She was smart and beautiful and wonderful and he wanted to listen to her talk about bathtubs and window treatments for the rest of his life. 

**********

Scully walked into their townhouse after a long shift at the hospital. She had been thinking the whole car ride home.

"I’m happy." She told him. It was two days after the brunch with her mom and her subsequent roadside meltdown. Mulder was sitting at the kitchen table, working on a lecture for his class the next day. He had put a lasagna in the oven, and was fairly proud of the wonderful smell that now filled the kitchen. Never mind that it had been Margaret Scully who brought over the dish last week, or that it has been Scully who texted him, twice, from the hospital, reminding him to put it in the oven at 5 so it would be ready when she got home at 6. He didn’t have the best track record with preparing dinners, so tonight was a win, a win he’d take any way he could get.

"I’m happy", she said, dropping her coat and bag onto the chair next to him. She smiled and stepped in between his legs, her hands naturally gravitating to his hair, his naturally wrapping around her waist. He pulled her closer and rested his cheek against her chest. It was then he felt her heart beating faster than normal, and his internal warning flag went up. When she stopped running her hands through his hair and gently pulled his face away from her body, Mulder’s heart sank.

"But I could be happier".

She paused, and a look Mulder couldn’t quite read spread across her face. She opened her mouth, then abruptly closed it and turned away, a blush rising in her cheeks.

She went to move out of his arms, but Mulder held her close, and mustered up the courage to say what he wanted to say, what he realized at the moment that he had been needing to say for a long time.

"I know".

She turned sharply, staring right into his eyes. He paused for a second, then continued.

"I know, because I feel the same way”.

There was uncertainly in her eyes; that old, familiar hesitation to believe what he was saying. It was a look he knew so well, so completely, that it gave him the courage he needed to continue.

"I think about him too. Not all the time. But enough. Enough to know what’s missing. Enough to wonder about what could be. And enough,” he continued, his voice faltering slightly, “to hope that one day, when he’s older, we’ll see him again. And we’ll explain. And he’ll hate us or love us, or a combination of both. And if we’re lucky, if we’re really fucking lucky, he’ll understand.”

She was silent. Silent and stoic and still for a such long enough time that Mulder started to seriously worry. And then she did something completely unexpected. She laughed.

Not a belly laugh, but not a polite, fake laugh either. Mulder was taken aback. The laughter subsisted after a few seconds, or maybe it was a few minutes. He had temporarily lost the ability to keep track of time. 

“Of course”, she said. Her hands went back up to his hair, and the smile returned to her face. Mulder immediately relaxed.

"Of course you get it", she said. "You’re you".

He returned her smile. They weren’t as happy as they could be, but they were still happy. And that was something. Actually, he thought, pulling her head down for a kiss, that was everything.

THE END


End file.
